


grief

by annavale23



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Fire Nation Politics (Avatar), Gen, Little bit of angst, Sokka POV, Sokka has Feelings about his mom's death, Zuko also has Feelings about his mom's disappearance, Zuko is an Awkward Turtleduck, and before The Ember Island Players, as in one boy talks the other shuts up entirely, just boys bonding over their dead/missing moms, minor description of Sokka's mom's death, set after The Southern Raiders, technically hurt/comfort, the boys talk it out, trauma based talking issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:09:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26290909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annavale23/pseuds/annavale23
Summary: [“How do you deal with grief?” Sokka asks, and the silence breaks. A fragile sort of thing across his knee, and it never really had a chance. Sokka is, after all, a man of many, many words.Zuko shoots him a look. A quick one, a flash of gold against the dim lights, the sand a dark mess and the sea glinting silver in Yue’s light.“You’re asking me,” he says eventually, his voice flat. Or maybe just dubious. It’s hard to tell.Sokka shrugs. “You’re here, aren’t you? Why not you?”]..Or: Sokka and Zuko, on the porch of the Fire Lord's beach house, bond over their dead mothers.
Relationships: Sokka & Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 196





	grief

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to see more Sokka & Zuko bonding. I'd wanted to do a whole 'someone finding out about Zuko's scar' fic, but then I watched 'The Southern Raiders', thought on Sokka's grief towards his mom, thought on Zuko's grief with *his* mom, and this happened. So. Hope you enjoy? I liked writing it at least. 
> 
> So, some warnings? I guess. There's some descriptions of blood in the first part, and then some mentions of trauma-based selective mutism.
> 
> \--  
> Edit: I'm on tumblr now, as [@drowning-in-cacophony](https://drowning-in-cacophony.tumblr.com/)

* * *

(In the days after his mother dies, Sokka says the most words he ever has in his life).

.

He has to be strong. Like a mountain, unflinching. A warrior.

It’s a battle he’s facing, and like none he ever has or well. The enemy is gone, their fire and steel ships a stain on the horizon and the grief they have left behind is what Sokka must take up arms against.

(When Dad breaks down, collapsing into a heap in the snow, he has to be Katara’s rock. When Gran-Gran cries into the stew, he has to cheer everyone up until salt dries to tracks. When Katara screams heartbreakingly hoarse into her pillow, he has to soothe her nightmares away. Words and words, the only weapons he can use to defeat the enemies here now).

.

Her mittens are still soaked in blood when they hand her over to him, all hurried like. Their arms, tall and strong, and they are hoisting the small screaming lump that is his sister into his arms. He is a warrior, a fighter, and his bottom lip is trembling as he looks at their tent, their _home_ , and the horrible keening sounds from inside.

“Sokka,” Bato says, a shadow across his eyes. “Take your sister away, okay? I’ll come get you when it’s safe.”

Katara’s mittens are soaked in blood. The pelt stained and the hairs are clumping. Will they be able to wash this out properly now? They’re digging into his shoulders, these blood soaked mittens, dragging streaks down his coat, and her tears flood him too. His arms heft around her – his small, trembling sister, and he is a warrior – and he nods determinedly at Bato, who is already turning back to that _sound._

Sokka doesn’t say anything until he’s half carried, half dragged his sister from the tent. Her legs are limp and heavy; right now, she’s almost the same height as he is. Girls often are at this age, Dad’s told him before. You’ll get a growth spurt soon, Mom-

He sits her in the snow. He doesn’t know where else he’s meant to bring her. All the other tents, _homes_ , they’re surrounded by bustling people and noise, and at least here, they’re far from that _sound_ now. She’s making gasping sounds against him. There’s still ash settled on some of the snow.

“Katara,” he says, and refuses to let his voice wobble. “Katara.”

In the hours days months years that follow, Sokka will never remember what he says here. The noises his mouth makes will fade into one massive jumble (the sound of Katara’s scream when she was pulled from the tent, the sound of Dad’s horrible heart-ripped-out wail, they will both never leave him, rendered in perfect detail) but the words he says now are not important. It’s the noise, the sound of his voice, his arm wrapped tightly around Katara, the way her shoulders shake violently and then calm slightly, her cries turning to snuffles, her blood soaked mittens curling in on themselves instead of being outstretched and grabbing. He talks and talks until his throat aches and he’s forgotten what silence feels like, and she clings to him and listens until-

“Sokka,” Katara whispers, into his blood stained shoulder. “They hu-hurt her. Mom.” Her voice cracks, an ice sheet too thin and there’s nothing but cold drowning silence underneath.

If he doesn’t keep talking, she’s going to end up crashing into a horrible, horrible place.

“Have you heard this tale, Katara?” He says, seizing another story. (His throat hurts; his heart does too. Blood on his sister’s mittens. Blood on his shoulder).

.

_Your mother passed,_ Bato tells him in a stiff voice. Stiff; restrained. There is a glassy shine to his eyes. Sokka bites his lip and keeps his own shine pressed back.

(It is two nights later that their father finally comes back to see them. He gathers them into his arms and _squeezes_ them. Katara snuffles. Sokka says all the comforting words his father should say instead).

 _You have to stay here and protect your sister,_ Hadoka will tell him in only a few years, large hands pressing into his shoulders. _I know you can_.

Because. Because his mother died, and his sister touched her blood and wears her necklace around her neck, and he can’t remember the last thing his mother said to him, but he’s a warrior and he can speak and speak and _speak_ , and he can hide too. Hide, and hide, and he presses his tears back and lets his father leave him, a speck on the horizon. He is a warrior, and he has his weapons.

.

.

He continues. Drowning out their grief with his words.

It works.

Right up to the point that Katara yells, eyes wide and angry and passionate, _you didn’t love Mom like I did._

.

.

.

He can’t sleep.

Well. He can. If he forces himself, squeezing his eyes tightly shut and curling up in Suki’s waiting arms, because sleep is something he can _always_ get eventually. But tonight, resting in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar house, in the _Fire Lord’s beach house,_ Sokka doesn’t think he actually _wants_ to sleep.

He keeps thinking. Of a man, old and pathetic, begging his sister in the rain. Of a woman, strong and dignified even in her end, assuring his sister she’ll be fine if only she leaves _now_. The thoughts loop and loop and loop, words screamed about love and how he _doesn’t_ , and the apology Katara’s given him too, words upon words, even as Suki sleeps peacefully next to him.

It’s half instinct to get out of the bed, stepping quietly over the floorboards as not to wake anyone. He doesn’t know where he’s going, just that he needs _air._

A man, begging, and a woman who never did, and all the words in the world can’t fix it.

.

He stumbles onto the porch. Gulps in the air, always too humid here, prickling over his skin until he wears a layer of sweat as a second layer, and it’s nothing like the freezing chill that comes from home. Here, he is baking, inside and out. His eyes cast out blindly and pause when he sees the moon. Silver and waiting in the sky – his heartbeat calms for a moment, Yue smoothing out his doubts – and then her light catches on a shadow already out here.

Zuko.

The firebender’s already noticed him, obviously, because nothing much happens without Zuko noticing. Sokka raises a hand in a quick greeting, his lips still; Zuko doesn’t shatter the silence either, and turns his eyes back to the sand, to the sea, to the moon. The air, too hot still on Sokka’s skin, but this atmosphere is better than the stifling one back in his room with all those thoughts, and so he takes a seat not too far from Zuko, resting his back against one of the pillars on the porch.

Silence, finally. Out here, Sokka finds his thoughts are muted, even with Zuko sitting only a few feet away.

(He wonders what _Zuko_ thought of the man who killed Sokka’s mother. He wonders if he should ask. The question’s on his lips. Something else – something better – comes out instead).

“How do you deal with grief?” Sokka asks, and the silence breaks. A fragile sort of thing across his knee, and it never really had a chance. Sokka is, after all, a man of many, many words.

Zuko shoots him a look. A quick one, a flash of gold against the dim lights, the sand a dark mess and the sea glinting silver in Yue’s light. Sokka thinks the look’s meant to be incredulous. It’s hard to tell, without better light. Honestly, it’d probably be hard to tell even _with_ better light.

“You’re asking me,” he says eventually, his voice flat. Or maybe just dubious. It’s hard to tell.

Sokka shrugs. He sort of wishes he had something in his hands. A drink, or some rope to fiddle with. As it is, he can only drum his fingertips against the porch he’s sprawled out on, leaning against one of the pillars. “You’re here, aren’t you? Why not you?”

“Just- I’m not the best person for this sort of thing.” If Sokka’s sprawled, then Zuko is tight. He doesn’t need a pillar to keep his back ram-rod straight, and both legs are bent and pressed to his chest, one arm looped around them. Tense, and isn’t that Zuko all over? The guy wouldn’t know relaxation if it hit him over the head.

“You’re here,” Sokka repeats. He taps his fingers against the porch again. “Throw a guy a bone, won’t you?”

“Throw a- what?” Now, _this_ look’s easy to interpret. It’s the _Zuko doesn’t get this again_ look, one of the more common looks. Sokka lets out a short, quiet laugh.

“Dude. You _really_ grew up in a palace, didn’t you?” It’s funny, really. Funny that the guy who chased them across the world used theatre scrolls to help with his dramatic speeches and one-liners. Funny that common phrases go over his head, and the only sort of thing Zuko can return with are mangled proverbs that never really make sense.

Zuko scowls at him. That arm around his leg tightens. But it’s lacking all the heat it might have once, and it’s almost playful.

(If he could tell himself from _six months ago_ that Prince Angry Jerkface would be _playful_ with him… well, yeah, less said about that the better).

“Just- I know it’s weird,” and he’s suddenly getting a little self-conscious. “Just answer me, yeah?” He adjusts his tone, making it as light-hearted as he can manage, and his words are an ocean through him, crashing silently against the closed line of his lips. He’s pretending. Pretending this isn’t like a _deal_ for him, because _I don’t get to ask anyone this, because Katara’s my sister and Aang is a monk and it’s not really the same anyway, and I don’t want to remind Suki of all her girls still trapped and Toph’s a kid too, and you-_

 _You’re here,_ and he doesn’t say that. It’ll make this sound- convenient. Like he doesn’t actually appreciate any answer Zuko could give him, and that won’t be good. This whole conversation will be over, and so many steps will be reversed because holy hell the guy’s hardly socialised. And- it’s not right either.

“You told my sister you lost your mom.” Maybe it’s not the sort of thing to remind a guy about – definitely not, going by the flinch in Zuko’s shoulders – but it’s a justification for this all. Because Zuko has lost a mother and Sokka talked until his throat was scraped raw all so Katara didn’t have to think too hard about the blood staining her mittens, and damn it, Zuko’s the only other person here that might actually _understand_.

“I did,” Zuko says softly. He’s staring at his knees. “But it’s not- it’s not the same. I don’t really- your mother died. It’s different.”

_Blood on mittens, screaming in his shoulder, the most horrific sound-_

“Dude,” Sokka says. “Just humour me. If you want,” he adds on because he probably shouldn’t _pressure_ the guy, not about _mothers._

“Why are you asking?” Zuko asks instead, a question instead of an answer and Sokka supposes he can’t hold it against him. A hand tightens against the porch even if his expression is loose. Sokka takes a moment to think of an answer, an acceptable one.

“I suppose… it’s all been brought up again, hasn’t it?” He lands on eventually, his words low and almost ripped from it. “You taking Katara on that revenge train. It’s got me thinking. And I just sort of… want to know? How other people deal with this sort of crap?”

Zuko hums, quiet in the already still night. “I don’t- how did- _do_ _you_ deal with it?” Another question instead of an answer and still, can Sokka hold it against him? It’s not really fair, asking something like _this_ with no sort of examples, right? And yeah, Sokka doesn’t like talking about this sort of thing, but, it’s like, Zuko’s already brought it up, with that whole revenge thing. So why not-

“It’s like I told you. For Katara. My mom was- taken from us. Rather violently.”

Zuko winces in the corner of his eye. There’s an apology on his lips, Sokka just _knows_ it, but luckily Zuko seems to get right now is not the time to say it. Not when Sokka’s on a roll.

“And I had to be the man, you know? The responsible one, because my dad was breaking apart – I mean, he didn’t even _eat_ unless Bato forced it down his throat – and my sister kept screaming, because she’d _seen_ it, and my grandmother, she was just so tired, and-” his words catch, for a moment. Sokka clears his throat. “I tried to fix it. I talked, so no one would have to think too long.”

“How young were you?” Zuko asks. A glint of gold, slow and hesitant and gone by the time Sokka glances over. So he looks to silver, the moon in the sky, softly shining.

“Ten,” Sokka says. Whispers. His voice goes quiet, all without his authority. He clears his throat again, trying to regain his control.

“Katara- Katara, she became like our mother. The glue to keep us together, to look after us in ways I couldn’t, once she’d recovered enough from- from what she saw. But I still- still talked, and whatever, because-” he pauses, and his words recede like the tides, pulling back until they are called forth. The light of the moon; the fact the truth is easier to speak in the dark, with someone like Zuko (who wasn’t there to experience the hurt, who isn’t a monk who just doesn’t _understand_ it in the same way). And in a way, it doesn’t matter, saying this to Zuko, who will carry all this to the _grave_ without even being asked. There’s no harm in telling Zuko, who won’t judge him at least out loud, who _isn’t_ his sister and-

“I think I was drowning myself. The grief. In _words.”_

He’s never admitted that out loud. The words hang on his tongue, bitter. They hang in the air, and then Zuko shifts, his body turning ever so slightly towards Sokka. His words, acknowledged.

Zuko doesn’t make to say any comforting words, and that’s oddly comforting in it’s own way. Sokka’s heard all the _sorry’s_ from his neighbours afterwards, from Katara all tearful when she’d returned from her revenge. He doesn’t need another helping of whatever comfort Zuko could dish out. The silence’s beginning to feel a little oppressive though; Zuko’s jaw working itself open speaks of the silence breaking again and _thank fuck for that._ The longer the silence goes on, the longer Sokka will have to think about what he’s admitted.

“When my mom… left,” Zuko says slowly, carefully, “I didn’t deal with it well either.”

“What, you talked your sister’s ear off too?” It’s meant to be a joke. Sokka’s tone isn’t completely right. It’s a little too weak, a little too cutting, all wrong and juxtaposed. Zuko doesn’t mind, or maybe he doesn’t even notice. He’s staring at his knees like they hold all the answers in the world.

“I didn’t,” Zuko says. Whispers. Just like Sokka, and maybe it’s not willingly either. He stares at his knees, so deep Sokka wouldn’t be surprised if the fabric covering them caught fire. “I didn’t. At all.”

“Huh?”

“Talk. I didn’t talk for about two weeks afterwards.” Zuko frowns, a slight furrow to his brows, and his eyes still don’t look up and that’s making it a _little_ difficult. Sokka’s got a really good _oh really/that sucks_ look down, and he can’t give it out if Zuko won’t look at him.

“Like – at all?”

Zuko nods quietly. “I asked my father where my mother was, he-” Zuko pauses, staring again and then shakes himself. “Then I shut up. Entirely.”

“Oh.” Sokka- can’t. Can’t imagine that. Himself, that is, being completely _silent_ , because honestly he hasn’t shut up since his mother died (because otherwise there would just be silence, and that would be crushing, drowning, _unbearable)._ Zuko’s face falls almost immediately; Sokka scrambles.

“Not that it’s- I mean-”

“It wasn’t- isn’t befitting of a prince,” Zuko says distantly. “To be so- compromised.”

Sokka takes a deep breath, and then exhales it carefully. In the South, it’d puff as mist. “Who told you that?”

 _This_ gets Zuko to look at him. A confused look, but a look.

“What?”

“That sounds like one of those repeated things.” Sokka gets to the blunt point. “Like, when you’ve been told something over and over until you’re the one saying it, but the words never sound like you believe it? That’s what you sound like, and honestly, I don’t think being upset’s being _compromised._ It’s natural, you know? To be upset after something like that.”

“Not for a prince,” Zuko says, a touch dry. “Not in- my father’s eyes.”

“You know he’s wrong, right?” Sokka checks. Zuko glances at him.

“My father’s wrong about a lot of things.” Delicately, and a clear side step out of this. Sokka’s narrowing his eyes.

“I was just- scared,” Zuko says eventually, and his voice is still a little _too_ tight. “No one spoke about her, and it was like she wasn’t even- like she was never even _there,_ and the servants all looked nervous and- and she had this garden and it was burnt to the ground by the time I went to check on it, and it was my fault she was gone anyway, so I just figured being _quiet_ might help things. I just couldn’t _start_ again, once I’d stopped. Barely anyone even noticed anyway, so really it wasn’t even- it’s not like anyone _cared._ ”

“Wait – how could it be _your_ fault?” Sokka asks, snagging on _that_ particular disturbing sentence among many. He’s curious; always been. Maybe it’s got him into trouble once or twice, but this seems like a place to stick his nose in. Katara’s spoke of their mother’s death – muffled sobs against his shoulders, always tinged with _my fault, if I’d been faster, if I’d been better -_ and Sokka’s had his own _it’s my fault_ thoughts too but, if he’s learnt anything about things in their travels it’s that a _kid_ can’t be responsible for things like this.

Zuko shrugs, studying the floor. “It’s- complicated.”

“Dude.” Sokka smacks his palm against the ground until Zuko peeks a look at him. “Come on. Complicated? I thought you knew I’m smart enough for _complicated.”_

“Boiling Rock. You were going to take _Appa,”_ Zuko says, with enough condemnation dripping off his words to make Sokka flush. But it’s playful, still playful, so Sokka can live with scorching cheeks.

“Yeah, but that was _one_ thing. Come on. Tell me.”

A hesitation. “It’s Fire Nation politics.”

“You think I can’t handle politics?” Then, a thought- “Wait. Is this some sort of _if I tell you, I’ll have to kill you_ thing?”

Zuko shoots him a withering look. “I think we’re a little late for that sort of thing. I’ve already betrayed the Fire Nation in the biggest sort of way, coming to join you.”

“Oh, yeah.” Sokka keeps forgetting that. Maybe it’s just because things are different in the Water Tribes, and even if he _left_ his tribe, with only children for warriors, it’s not the same as the prince of a nation saying _screw you_ to the Fire Lord. “But seriously. I could handle it.”

Zuko’s look in return is examining. For what, Sokka doesn’t know, and it makes him a little slightly maybe a lot nervous. It’s not that he’s easily unnerved, but it’s the way that Zuko does this specific look. Sokka can’t put his finger on what it is about it. Maybe it’s the eyes, gold when he’s used to every shade but.

“I’m sure _you_ could,” Zuko says quietly after a few beats, and Sokka doesn’t miss the emphasis even if he doesn’t quite understand it.

“So come on, man! Lay it on me!” Sokka claps his palms onto his leg; Zuko jumps just a little at the sound. Those eyes come again, examining and deep and Sokka’s almost holding his breath and-

“Fine,” Zuko sighs like it costs him the world to say, and Sokka. Wavers. Just a little.

“You don’t need to. Not if you don’t want to,” he jumps in to say, because he should, because it’s right, because he doesn’t want to _force-_

“It’s fine,” Zuko repeats, and his tone is a little more forceful than the circumstances call for. “It might be-”

“What?”

There’s a flush to Zuko’s face. “Cathartic. To talk about it. I don’t- I don’t think I’ve actually ever told anyone the story. Everyone either knows or just doesn’t ask.”

“What about your uncle? Does he know?”

Zuko shakes his head, looking grim for a moment. Then _fierce._ “And you can’t tell him, if you ever run into him. Okay? I don’t want- he shouldn’t know.”

Sokka’s… startled? By the sudden change in tone? He nods, his warrior’s wolf tail bobbing with the motion. “I swear.” He wonders what sort of story this is going to be, if Zuko’s not told his _uncle_ , who seems (at least according to Toph) to know everything.

Zuko takes in a breath and lets it loose. A few more of these, and Sokka starts recalling this is the sort of controlled breathing Zuko’s always teaching Aang about. So he waits, only _slightly_ impatient because he gets it, talking about losing people, _mothers_ , is hard, and Zuko extended the same courtesy to _him_ , and eventually-

“It started with my cousin,” Zuko begins with, and Sokka starts – Zuko has a _cousin?_ Like, his uncle has a _kid?_ “He, um, died.” And ah, _that’s_ probably why he’s never heard anything about this cousin. “Most of the court was struck with grieving but my father, he saw a… _opportunity_.” There’s a look on Zuko’s face. Partially a grimace, and the shadows of the night steal the other half away. “He wanted the throne. My grandfather – Fire Lord Azulon – disagreed.”

It’s a strange thought stuck in between the seriousness of the words. That the last Fire Lord, the one that ordered Sokka’s whole people to be raided and murdered, was Zuko’s _grandfather_.

Still, strange thoughts or no, it doesn’t really explain how Zuko’s mother going is _Zuko’s_ fault.

“So what happened then?” Sokka asks, leaning in slightly. “’Cause I always thought that succession went to the oldest kid, and your uncle’s clearly older than your dad, so…”

Zuko nods. “It is. That’s part of the reason Azulon disagreed. My father… overstepped. The only reason I even know that he asked is because Azula roped me into spying on the conversation, behind these massive curtains, but I always found the whole throne room terrifying, what with the flames and everything,” and Sokka makes a note to remind himself to ask Aang what the throne room looks like, since Aang’s been in there now, “so I ran off when Azulon got angry, and Azula told me the rest later.”

“Sisters, am I right?” Sokka allows a moment for an aimed brother consolation. Katara’s dragged _him_ into enough shit over the years, and even if Azula is… crazy… she’s still a little sister. Zuko doesn’t look over to accept the moment however, and Sokka might be offended if the story didn’t continue.

“Azula’s always been a liar, but there’s a pattern to it. She doesn’t lie when the truth would hurt worse than any lie.” Zuko’s eyes are a little unfocused. “So she told me that to get the throne, our father had asked Azulon to make _him_ his heir instead of Iroh – since Iroh had lost his only child and so, in my father’s argument, would be a bad choice of heir – and that angered Azulon so then he ordered our father to kill me so he’d feel the same pain. My mother overheard and-” a pause and Sokka’ glad because his mind is racing because _Tui and La, the Fire Nation is fucked up_ and then- “I’m pretty sure my mother murdered my grandfather so I’d stay alive.”

Sokka’s heart stutters.

 _Sokka,_ Katara told him, only _last night,_ after all that revenge business, with wide eyes, unshed tears, _Sokka, he said she told him_ she _was the last waterbender. She died for me_.

“I don’t know if she’s dead though. Like-” Zuko’s side glance finishes well enough. “I thought- I think I thought she was, all these years, because no one- it seemed only natural, you know? Another mysterious disappearance in the palace.” And _that_ catches Sokka’s attention too, because how many damn people can just _disappear?_ “But on the eclipse, my father told me she was _banished_ , not killed, after her treason, so…” he shrugs, weakly, and it does not hide the buzz running there. The thoughts Sokka can practically hear; the thoughts he gives life to.

“So she might still be out there.”

Zuko inclines his head, once, slightly, small. He doesn’t add anything else onto that – _can’t_ , maybe, Sokka realises. To verbalise the _want_ would be too much, just in case it falls apart in the next moment.

“But it’s been five, six years. So she’s probably… not,” Zuko exhales. Not defeated. Accepting, but in the depressing sort of way, in the way where nothing goes right, so why should this be any different?

“Maybe…” Sokka starts, hesitant for a moment and then stronger, “maybe after all this, we could all go look for her? Another Gaang adventure?” If he was physically close enough, he’d bump his shoulder into Zuko’s.

Zuko shrugs, and his arms curl tighter around his legs. “Maybe,” but it sounds like _no point._ “That’s the story though. She had to go because of me and my father.”

Now, there’s plenty wrong with _that._ Sokka runs through it all in his head: the _you were a kid, it can’t be because of you_ and _I think your grandfather was a dick and your father’s just the worst,_ or _your mother chose what she did because she loved you_ but the last is presumptuous and honestly, he can’t even know it’s true even if it probably is, and the first is likely to go nowhere and the middle is the obvious fact that everyone knows, because Zuko’s grandfather massacred the Southern Water Tribes and Zuko’s father is doing his best to murder the rest of the world.

But the alternative is staying quiet, and the seconds are ticking away as Sokka considers his words. And he’s too slow; the seconds are gone. The silence is shattered again, and by Zuko.

“Look, I-” the guy starts, pauses, continues, his voice a rough rasp, “I don’t know anything about your family, obviously, but I think- you, your family- I think you were good. To them. With the whole grief thing.”

It’s awkward and stilted but nice and sincere, and Sokka stares.

“Yeah?” He’s heard this before. (He’s never heard it like this before).

Zuko nods. “You, um. Sounded like you really helped them.”

“You think?” Sokka can’t help the smile on his face, that slowly grows and stretches his muscles in a way that is all too familiar and scarily new all at the same time. He is a warrior, and warriors must protect, and warriors rarely get a time to get thanked. Zuko nods, rubbing at the back of his next awkwardly.

“Yeah, I think-” He clears his throat. “You clearly loved your mom and I’m sure she’d be. Happy? With you. I think.”

And good _Yue_ , this guy’s awkward, and clearly doesn’t think about the _presumption_ like Sokka did for him. Regardless, Sokka grins. He leans over, stretching until he can copy Toph’s signature punch, though he makes it more of a tap than a thump. Zuko still jumps, but he doesn’t snap.

“Thanks, Zuko,” Sokka says.

Zuko gives him a small and awkward smile.

And hell- if they’re doing _presumptions,_ Sokka’s jumping in.

“I think your mom would be happy with you too.”

Zuko startles. A twitch to his shoulders before he looks back down at his knees. “I hope so,” he mumbles.

Sokka smiles again. It doesn’t get returned, but that’s okay. He thinks this conversation helped him; he hopes it helped Zuko too.

* * *


End file.
